


Help A Blind Man Cross The Road

by tehtarik



Series: SpiritAssassin Week 2017 [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Baze went to school and did Moral Studies once, First Meetings, Gen, SpiritAssassin Week, SpiritAssassin Week 2017, The moral of the story is fairly obvious, spiritassassin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 21:10:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10727310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehtarik/pseuds/tehtarik
Summary: If you see a blind man standing by the road, do you:a) offer to help, and then guide him across the roadb) what is this, a Moral Studies class? Nope. Not. Baze's. Problem. No way.





	Help A Blind Man Cross The Road

**Author's Note:**

> For SpiritAssassin Week 2017  
> Prompt is: first impressions

There is a blind uncle at the edge of Vatta Street. Not ten paces from where Baze is sitting on the footpath, chewing on melon seeds.

The man is old and hunched, a warped staff in his hand. He’s wearing dark-tinted optic lenses and black robes, his face hidden by a large hood. Either a holy man or a beggar, and there are plenty of both here on Vatta Street.

Baze looks away, disinterested. They all flock to this part of the city: the blind, the deaf, the ones who’ve lost limbs, or the ones afflicted with episodes of holy paroxysms. Nothing to do with him.

“Hey, you!”

Baze’s head snaps up in attention. The blind man hasn’t moved, or turned his head to face him. Nearby, there is a small group of chattering devotees in veils, coming from the nearby Temple, having finished their midday prayers. A protocol droid with the ends of loose wiring peeping out from behind the plates of its external covering. None of them look like they had just addressed him.

“Yes, you! The good-for-nothing taking up the whole footpath! Do they not teach you manners at school?”

It’s definitely the blind man.

“You talking to me, uncle?” Baze says.

“Slow-witted as well as ill-mannered!” The blind man taps his crooked staff on the ground impatiently. His voice is croaky and strained, as though he’s speaking from the depths of his throat. “I asked you, what did they teach you at school?”

Baze curses inwardly. Just his luck to have some grumpy blind condescending uncle strike up convo with him.

“I don’t go to school anymore,” he growls. He lights a clove cigarette, the last of his stash.

The blind man has now turned his head slightly toward him. Most of his face is hidden by the shadowy cowl of his robes, but his optic lenses are round black holes eyeballing Baze. “But you used to. Didn’t you learn any basic Moral Studies at school? Or has the Jedhan education system gone down the drain? That most certainly explains why the youth of today are such a worthless lot.”

The old aphorisms of long-forgotten Moral Studies classes seep back into Baze’s thoughts. Some generic, some ridiculously specific.

 _Be considerate._  
_Be responsible._  
_Be hardworking._  
_Respect your elders._  
_Plant trees in barren spaces._  
_When you see a blind man, offer him help to cross the street._

“You can cross the street by yourself, uncle,” says Baze. “There’s no traffic.”

“Insolent!” cries the blind man in outrage. He strikes the ground harder with his staff. “You will not help an old man who is in need?”

“Vehicles are not allowed on Vatta Street! It's pedestrian-only!” Baze yells back. “You’re not going to get run over by anything!”

The blind man purses his mouth into a thin angry line. He raises his staff and begins to shout. “Thus I have heard that this world will be ended not because of any cosmic disaster, but from the collapse of modern society. And a most disturbing symptom of this impending collapse is how apathetic and uncharitable and discourteous our youth have grown!”

The uncle has started preaching. Passers-by have begun to stop and listen to the blind man’s street sermon.

“Have none of you heard of the fable of the blind man and the arrogant wealthy son of the bantha farmer?” He lifts an accusing finger at points it straight at Baze.

This is far more attention than Baze likes.

“Okay, okay!” He jumps to his feet, upending his pouch and scattering melon seeds. He grinds his unfinished cigarette with his heel. “I’ll help you cross!”

An old woman hisses at him as he passes. “No shame! Won’t even help that poor blind man.”

“After I help that uncle, I'm going to come back and carry you on my back, grandma,” Baze says threateningly.

He takes the blind uncle’s elbow.

“At last,” says the blind man, and Baze starts.

The blind uncle is not an uncle at all. In fact, he looks younger than Baze. And he’s smiling. It’s a nice smile, dimpled at the edges, and there’s a genuine pleasance to it.

He would appreciate this smile a bit more, if he weren't feeling so aggrieved.

“You--!” Baze splutters.

In response, the other boy raps his instep with his staff and Baze curses in pain. “Come on, come on. I want to get to the other side. What’s the hold-up?”

People are still watching from the footpaths, so Baze takes a deep breath and guides the blind boy across Vatta Street. Which is completely empty of any vehicle, speeder, or cart, by the way.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” says the blind boy. His optic lenses glint enigmatically at Baze.

“Why are you pretending to be some old uncle? Spouting shit about the ‘youth of today?’”

“The soul needs to be constantly nourished by acts of compassion and goodness. I am helping you fulfil your spiritual quota for the sake of your soul.”

“My soul was getting along fine without you,” snaps Baze.

“Then yours is but a pitiful and undernourished soul,” says the blind boy. He straightens the false hunch out of his shoulders and pushes the hood off. Then he thrusts his staff into Baze’s hands. “Hold this.”

The staff is smooth and polished. Heavy. Good for breaking bones, Baze thinks, vaguely.

This stranger is in the garb of the Guardians. Not a beggar after all.

He takes a handkerchief out and blows his nose, loud and trumpeting. Baze winces. He’d always thought of the Guardians as a dignified, intimidating lot with graceful but brutal fighting skills. He’d seen them take out robbers and armed gangs preying on pilgrims with ease.

“I’m allergic to sand,” says the boy. He balls up the handkerchief. Gestures to Baze to move aside.

Perplexed, Baze steps to his left. The blind boy tosses the snotty balled-up handkerchief forwards and it lands in a discarded basket by a rubbish heap, a good distance away.

“How did you do that?” Baze says. His eyes narrow. “Are you even _blind_?”

He starts forward and pulls off the boy’s optic lenses.

“Oh.”

Pale, milky eyes stare back at him. The blind boy smiles and holds his hand out for his staff.

“So, where’s the nearest cantina?” he says.

“ _What_? Aren't you a Guardian of the Whills?”

He lifts his staff and uses it to point at Baze’s pockets. “You’ve got credits in there. And I’m thirsty.”

Baze is speechless for a moment. Then: “You want me to buy you a drink? I don’t even know who you are!”

The blind boy begins walking away. “Don’t you want to find out, then? Come on, humour a blind person, will you?”

Baze looks around. Vatta Street is quiet, the crowds dispersed, and his melon seeds are all gone, trampled into the dirt by the passers-by. Hell, even his last cigarette is gone. Nothing to do. Oh, well. He runs after the blind boy.

Buy a blind kid a drink. Huh.

He definitely did _not_ learn this at any Moral Studies class.

 

 


End file.
